Reluctantly, she said she's take it.
When the conversation was finished, Marci was grinning.
"What?" Hank asked.
"Seems like you joined our team."
"Yeah," he said, surprised. "Yeah, I guess I have!"
When the replica came back from Israel. Hank found the finish work remarkable. Comparing it to his photos of the original, he agreed the two daggers now appeared identical.
"But since I can tell them apart by feel," he told Marci, "there's a possibility Pedraza will be able to too?"
"I doubt it considering the way he and his people use it. They don't handle it the way you do, like a connoisseur."
Though he dropped the matter, it continued to bother him. If Pedraza could tell the difference, then the operation would fail. Perhaps, he thought, Marci had too much invested to conceive of the possibility of failure.
That same afternoon, Marci took him to what she called a "reconciliation meeting" with DiPinto at the Alvear Palace. Though Hank was willing to forgive and forget, he couldn't resist teasing his old antagonist.
"Your stunt with the maid really sucked," he told Luis. "You really thought I'd fall for that?"
"I apologize," Luis said. "Seems I outsmarted myself."
Softened by the apology, Hank offered some advice.
"Here's a tip, Luis. There's a little runt of a private detective with an office across the hall from yours. I think he may be on to you."
"The matrimonial guy, Piglia?"
Hank nodded. "He seemed pretty interested in your comings and goings."
"Thank you. We were planning to close down there in a couple days. I'll take care of it this afternoon."
As expected, Señora Pedraza insisted on inspecting the touched-up replica. While she looked it over, Hank was careful not to let it leave his sight. Though she tried to restrain herself when Hank showed her the attaché case filled with cash, her eyes betrayed her greed.
The Señora also insisted on testing the legitimacy of the money. She flipped through the banded packets of hundred dollar bills, then extracted five at random.
"I'll have these checked by a currency expert," she told Hank. "I'll be back in half an hour."
"You still don't trust me."
She smiled. "Only a fool trusts anyone in Buenos Aires."
The cash and dagger exchange finally took place just six days after their initial meeting in the hotel bar. Again the Señora brought her husband's dagger wrapped in an Hermès scarf. Hank inspected it closely, comparing it to the replica, while she counted and then recounted the cash.
"Are you really leaving tomorrow?" she asked after she finished. Then, when he nodded: "I'll be leaving the country myself next week. I don't care for my husband anymore. My sister lives in Spain. I'll be making my usual winter visit...but this time I won't be coming back."
"I wish you luck, Señora," Hank said as they shook hands at the door.
"I wish you the same," she said. She looked at him, smiled. "Since we've both just committed a crime, this'll probably strike you as absurd, but from the very beginning I felt I could trust you, Mr. Barnes. I knew you weren't a chanta. You see, you have honest eyes."
As Hank would be flying to Miami the following morning, Marci suggested, after an afternoon bout of sex, that they spend a final celebratory night on the town. She left him for a while to take care of unspecified business, then returned in a taxi at nine p.m. to pick him up.
They went first to a restaurant in Recoleta, where, over a steak dinner, she told him her superiors had approved her proposed deal.
"I can't give it to you in writing," she said, "since, after all, nothing we've done here has officially occurred. But you can expect the dagger to be delivered to you in Chicago within a week. It'll come via UPS along with all the other stuff I bought at MAX."
"I can trust you on this? Hank asked.
"One hundred percent!"
After a light desert and cheese followed by coffee, they got back into the same cab waiting out front.
"Have you hired him for the evening?" Hank asked, gesturing toward the driver.
"This is a special taxi." Marci answered. "The driver works exclusively for us."
"Where to?" Hank asked.
"I have a destination in mind. But I need to take care of some business first. You don't mind if we make a stop along the way?"
Hank shrugged. "Whatever you want...."
The taxi took them deep into the Barrio Norte, stopping finally on a residential street in Colegiales. There was a sparsely occupied café on the corner, and then, in a row, a dry cleaning store, a shoe repair shop and a florist, all closed. Across the street was a row of four small well-kept two-story houses, with a larger house on the corner.
That house, like so many corner buildings in the city, was cleaved on the diagonal, creating a facade that faced directly on the intersection, an architectural feature which, Marci told him, was called an ochaba.
"The word derives from ocho which means eight. The angle, you see, is one eighth, or twelve and a half degrees."
There was something exceptionally calm about her as she stared at the corner house. Picking up on her interest, Hank studied it too. Lights showed through the windows. He made out the glow of a TV set in a room on the second floor.
"Late autumn now," she said. "It's starting to get cold. Winter's coming and with it the cold south wind from Antarctica that Porteños call the sudestada."
Hank looked at the back of the driver's head. The man sat absolutely still in his seat. He turned back to Marci.
"What's going on?"
"We're interested in that house, the one with the ochaba," she said. "See the two guys hanging out in front? They're bodyguards, Crocodiles most likely." She turned to him. "It's Pedraza's house."
Hank felt a chill pass through him. "What the hell are we doing here?"
"Just a little errand," she said, extracting her cell phone from her purse.
"Is this where you double-cross me?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Hank. This is where I save your ass."
"I don't."
"Shhhh!" She punched a number into her phone. "This'll just take a few seconds. Then we'll be on our way."
Even though she spoke Spanish into the phone, he could make out what she was saying:
"Hello! Señora Pedraza? I must speak to your husband. It's an urgent matter....thank you."
She glanced at Hank, placed her free hand on his knee to calm him.
"Yes, hello! Dr. Pedraza? I am speaking to Dr. Osvaldo Pedraza? Yes, please, sir...just one moment while I connect you."
She took the phone away from her ear, then, carefully calmly punched in a number. Just then there was a flash of light on the second floor of the house, followed by an explosion.
"Holy shit!"
At the roar, the bodyguards rushed inside. At the same time Marci's driver hit the gas.
"Christ! What the fuck happened?" Hank yelled, as their taxi swerved around the corner, then raced up an empty avenue.
"Hopefully I just blew off half of Pedraza's head," Marci said, snapping her phone shut, replacing it in her purse.
"You fucking killed him with your phone?"
"The Señora's phone actually. It's an effective method, one we've used before with great success. One too that bears our signature. And no, Hank, it had nothing to do with you, or with the replica dagger. We cloned her phone, then made the substitution at her hairdresser's a week ago. Ever since she's been walking around with a little bomb in her purse. But there was no danger, the method's foolproof. I'm the only one who could set it off, and only with a special code."
"I'm the one who got you her phone number, remember?"
"That's true," she agreed. "So I guess you're also implicated if you care to look at it that way."
"Why did you do this?" he asked, shaking. The taxi had slowed, was now moving normally in traffic. Hank wasn't sure whether it was his shock at what she'd done, or her calm that most
unnerved him.
"Why?" She looked at him. "Several reasons. First, because Pedraza ordered the murder of one of our officers. We don't let anyone get away with that. State Policy. Also, as you pointed out, there was a remote chance he'd figure out his wife had switched the daggers. By taking him out, we eliminated that possibility. That's what I meant when I said I was saving your ass. By the way, I can assure you the Señora wasn't hurt. Our cell phone bombs are highly directional, built to explode only at the person holding it to his ear. A third reason, an important one, is because the leadership of the Immaculates, along with the dagger, will now pass to someone else. The new leader, whoever he is, won't be familiar with the dagger so he'll have no way of knowing it's a replica. We'll use it, as I explained, to listen in to meetings. Once we identify the new leader, we'll assassinate him as well. Then on to the next, and the next, and perhaps even the next...the nice part being that they'll never suspect it's their precious Reichsmarschall dagger that's responsible. They'll never know that, but they will know it's us who's killing them. They'll rack their brains trying to figure out how we know who they are. If all goes as planned, they'll soon begin to suspect one another. Then they'll turn on one another, and then, hopefully, self-destruct."
So that was the plan. She hadn't lied to him, had simply neglected to let him in on the ramifications. It wasn't just Pedraza they were after, it was the Immaculates, every single one.
"Pull over," she instructed the driver. When he did, she said something to him in Hebrew. He got out, walked around to Hank's door, then stood beside it like a sentry.
She turned to Hank. "This is our final meeting. When we're done talking here, you'll get out, I'll drive away...and we'll never see one another again. I tell you this with real regret. I like you very much. I love making love with you and I very much enjoy your company. You're a terrific guy and I'm going to miss you. That said, I'm sorry I couldn't share all the details of our operation, and that I dragged you into, let's be frank, an assassination plot, one that will be ongoing too. These are evil men, Hank, murderous men. They deserve no pity. They're our blood enemies. It's us or them."
She paused. "I have to confess something else. The deal I cleared with my superiors was not the same deal I proposed to you. I felt you deserved a lot more than ten percent, so I told them you would only assist us in exchange for the dagger free and clear. We need our hundred fifty thousand back of course. You'll have to return that to us off the top. But anything you can get above and beyond is yours to keep. As is the thirty thousand for your time, and ten percent on the resale of the MAX stuff. That's a lot of money. It took a lot of persuasion to get them to agree. I hope you're happy with it. I hope it makes up, at least in part, for my duplicity."
"You're kidding me!" he said.
"I'm not. The dagger's yours. Pay us the first hundred fifty from whatever you get and keep the rest for yourself."
"I don't know what to say!"
"Don't say anything. You deserve every cent. You helped us do something very important. We are truly in your debt." She paused again. "One other thing before we part. You deal in militaria. Now you've crossed a line, taken part in a real war. It's a different kind of experience, isn't it? Perhaps it will make you think more deeply about what you do. I hope that after you sell the dagger and the other stuff, you'll decide to change your specialty. How about U.S. Civil War sabers or Old West Winchesters and Colts? Just not the Nazi stuff. Anyway, I hope you'll consider it."
"I will." He gazed at her. "You're an amazing person, Marci. I'll never forget you."
She smiled. "Nice of you to say that, but I insist that you forget me... not that such an insistence has any force concerning a matter of the heart." She pointed ahead. "There's a tango club in the next block. You'll find taxis out front. You might want to stop in and watch the dancing a while before returning to your hotel. The dancers there are exceptionally good, and I don't imagine you'll be returning to Argentina very soon."
She leaned toward him, kissed him lightly. Then she pressed her lips hard against his, then pulled away.
"It's time, Hank." He made out tears forming in her eyes. "Off with you now!" She rapped on the window. The driver opened Hank's door. "Good luck!"
He stood on the curb as the taxi drove off. She didn't look back. He didn't expect her to.
When the taxi was gone, he checked his watch. Midnight. Plenty of time to go back and pack before his flight.
Starting up the street, he saw a sign: Club Sunderland. Then, walking further, he began to hear music, fatalistic, melancholy music that reminded him of the people of Buenos Aires, the way they strutted about and smiled as if to mask their hurt.
Chapter Twenty-Two
DANCERS OF THE DANCE...
Standing in the doorway of Club Sunderland, Marta felt as if she were viewing a scene from the Buenos Aires of her childhood—a city of simple pleasures presided over by beautiful beaming women and gracious gallant men.
"This," she told Leon, pausing to survey the room, "is my kind of tango club!"
The hall was used as a gym during the week. Plexiglas basketball backboards were mounted at either end. The space was cavernous, bright and stark, with a good sound system, a revolving dance hall lamp and fans suspended from the ceiling. Chairs and tables surrounded the dance floor, which bore basketball court markings. Posters adorned the walls, advertisements for realtors, contractors, car repair shops. The waiters, wearing black vests and black bow ties, scurried about fulfilling orders.
Marta, taking in the music, relished the blend of sounds: the plaintive moans of a bandoneón, the vigorous thrusts of a violin, the rippling embellishments of the piano. The music, speaking to her of fate and also of defiance, filled her with sweet melancholy. It was, she recognized, the music of her city.
She turned to Marina. The girl appeared dazzled by the scene. Leon, coming upon them from behind, placed a hand on each of their shoulders.
"Shall we go in?"
Marina, beaming, turned to Marta.
"May I run ahead, see if Cousin Manuel's here?"
Marta nodded and Marina took off...like a kid bursting into a playground, she thought. She felt moisture forming in her eyes. The music and dancing brought back old times...and so did her clothes. She rarely wore jewelry; tonight hoops dangled from her ears, and her mother's old silver necklace hung about her neck. Her dress, which bared her shoulders, was held up by narrow straps. She wore squared-off tango shoes, which, when she'd found them in the back of her closet, she'd carefully dusted off.
She and Leon weren't late night types. Work and family life took up most of their time. But this Saturday was special, a day to celebrate their reunion. They'd decided to take Marina with them to give her a taste too of late night Buenos Aires.
Marina, excited, skipped back to Marta's side.
"They're over there!" she said, pointing at the far side of the dance floor.
Immediately Marina darted back toward a table where Marta spotted Rolo and his family: Rolo beckoning; his wife, Isabel, waving; their son, Manuel, catching sight of Marina, running to her, kissing her, then escorting her to the embraces of his parents.
"You know what I love about this club?" Marta said, after she and Leon joined the Tejadas, ordered a bottle of wine and Cokes for the kids. "It's a family place. Nothing phony."
"No slickies," Leon said.
"And no psicobolches," Rolo added.
"What are psicobolches, Dad?" Manuel asked.
Rolo smiled. "People who sit around babbling about communism and psychoanalysis. What do you think, Marina?"
Marina's eyes, Marta noted, were wide with wonder as she and Manuel studied the action on the floor.
"The dancers here are really good."
"You're not afraid to join them?"
"Maybe a little."
"How about you?" Isabel asked Manuel.
He turned to Marina. "We've got to start somewhere."
"That's right," Leon said. He turned to Mart
a. "Want to?" he asked, rising.
Because this was to be Beth Browder's last night out before her return to San Francisco, Sabina Bernays and Ana Moreno jointly escorted her to Club Sunderland, a place Sabina never mentioned to her resident milongueras lest her favorite tango hall become a tourist destination.
"You'll see plenty of cobblestone here," Sabina told Beth, as they paid their admissions.
Peering around, Beth was struck by the contrast between the humble look of the hall and the high quality of the dancing. The floor was open, uncrowded. Beside good looking young people, she saw skilled child-dancers, excellent middle-aged dancers and marvelous old people dancing with zest. She didn't feel the loneliness here she'd often felt in snazzier places, nor the cruel cult of youth-and-beauty that was so endemic at the downtown clubs.
After they took a table at the far end of the dance floor, Ana turned to Beth.
"Look at how much fun everyone's having. Doesn't matter this is a converted gym. At a good milonga you don't need gloom and glitzy mirrors. The dancing's strong. That's all you need."
Beth nodded. What was taking place before her eyes was exactly what Carlos Santos had described during their lessons: tango liso, tango smooth and unadorned, without the usual flurries of kicks, hooks and counter-hooks, tango with a purity of form and an emphasis on caminada, the walking steps, occasionally embellished with ochos.
The couples out there are totally involved with one another. None of them are showing off. It's like I'm eavesdropping on a hundred private conversations. This place is great!
She turned to Sabina. "When we came in I didn't like the lighting. Too harsh. Now I think it works."
Sabina nodded. "It sets the dancers off."
When Beth turned back to Ana, she found her therapist staring intently across the floor. Beth, looking in the same direction, felt her heartbeat quicken.
"Oh, my God!" she whispered to her escorts. "That's him!"
"Who?"
City of Knives Page 37
